The Big Book of HC Prompts
by Haelia
Summary: What it says on the tin. Fills for prompts I find online and prompts people give me. Hurt/comfort, some angst. All characters. NO romance, NO Johnlock, ALL H/C one-shots. Got a hurt/comfort prompt? Send it my way and I'll write a one-shot. Rating for safety.
1. Too Much

**Note**: I combined two prompts for this first story.

**Characters: **Sherlock & John

**POV: **John

**Prompt 1: ****Sherlock passes out from pushing himself too hard for a case. **

**Prompt 2: ****Sherlock once lost a case. He caught the murderer, but not before someone else died, and he regrets that terribly.**

**Submitted by:** Arowen13

* * *

"This kind of wound doesn't happen in self-defence. It's deep, deliberate… but the knife couldn't have been more than four inches long, which means the attacker would have had to get in close. He knew whomever killed him - knew him intimately. Look at his hands, Lestrade. Those aren't defensive wounds, they're scrapes from when he fell to the pavement."

John isn't really listening as Sherlock paints a lurid murder scene on a cool September afternoon. He's standing beside him as they consult with Lestrade over a conference table covered in photographs and notes. Sherlock is rehashing, starting again from the beginning to try to find whatever it is he's missed. They've been on this case for ages with no leads and barely anything to go on. John doesn't even see the gruesome details in the photographs anymore, doesn't process them. They've become background noise at this point; just a sad, unavoidable fact of the case.

Normally, crimes get solved in record time with Sherlock on the case. This time, though, it's been four weeks and two dead ends and they are hardly closer to the solution than they were a month ago. Sometimes, John thinks they might even be going backwards instead of forwards.

But it isn't the case John is worried about. Not today, not now; not when he can see, even under the bleaching fluorescents of New Scotland Yard, that his flatmate's strength is waning. For weeks now, John's pleas to eat, drink, and sleep have only been heeded to the barest extent. Sherlock obeys only when he has no other choice. The stress of the case isn't helping, either. This murderer has eluded Sherlock for far too long, and that bothers him. _Bother_ is too mild a word, though, John knows. It's more than that. Sherlock finds it deplorable, disgusting… unthinkable, that his great mind can't find a killer who was careless enough to leave his one and only victim out in broad daylight. The challenge was refreshing at first, John knows, but now it's gone on too long and Sherlock is sick of playing. He plays to win, after all. Right now, he's not winning.

"We've interviewed everyone associated with the victim," Lestrade is saying now, shaking his head. "He can't have known the killer, unless it was a big secret."

"What about Michael Camden?" Sherlock presses. "He ran when we questioned him. Remember?" He looks to John for support.

John nods, recalling with clarity the rooftop jaunt in Southwark.

"You said he ran because of the warrant out for his arrest," says Greg. "He didn't know anything when we questioned him, anyway. Now he's serving time for robbery."

"I need to speak to him again."

Lestrade's pager goes off and he pulls it off his belt to glance at the display. He heaves a sigh. "I've gotta go. I'll arrange an interview with Camden." He strides to the door and holds it open for the other two, waving them through. "Don't do anything without me, though, Sherlock. The press are watching this one like hawks."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but his lack of argument passes for agreement, and John follows him out.

221B is dim and quiet and warm when they return some twenty minutes later. Mrs. Hudson comes up bearing a tray loaded with tea, sandwiches, and biscuits just after they boys arrive home. "Hungry?" she chirps cheerily.

"Yes," John says eagerly.

At the same time, Sherlock says, "No."

Mrs. Hudson tut-tuts and bustles out, and John gives his flatmate a reproving look. "Sherlock, you need to eat," he says for what feels like the millionth time in two weeks.

"And suppose someone else dies while we're eating biscuits," the detective snaps with unwarranted aggression. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and turns his back to John, staring at the mess of notes and photographs tacked to the wall. "Let your sentimentality deal with _that_."

* * *

The next day is the same. They're visiting the crime scene again. Sherlock is restless, agitated. They've combed the scene half a dozen times already. There's nothing new here and he knows it, but lives are at stake and more importantly - the game is on and Sherlock is losing it.

John can smell rain as his flatmate walks the perimeter of the area. The body was found in a park. That section of the park is still roped off from the general public, at Sherlock's request, though certainly some kids have sneaked in a few times for a laugh.

"If he thinks he's gotten away with it, he may kill again," Sherlock says as he comes to a stop in front of the park bench where the body had been posed.

"On the other hand, he may not," says John, irritably.

Audibly, Sherlock exhales. He doesn't say anything. He's swaying.

John grabs him under the arm and hauls him away. His lack of argument is more worrying than anything else.

* * *

Another day, Sherlock is staring at a computer at the Yard when his eyes go glassy. John is poring over a new case file that may or may not be linked to their murderer, but he's doing it in spurts and jags because his eyes are continually drawn to his flatmate, who is pale and silent and stony - more so than usual.

Without warning, Sherlock sighs and slumps and cradles his head in his hands.

"Sherlock?"

The detective doesn't answer.

"Sherlock," John says again, more insistently. He reaches across the table and pokes an arm.

"I'm fine."

"Take a break."

"I'm _fine_." His phone rings. It's sitting on a table across the room. "Get that."

* * *

They're at home when it finally happens, two days later. John has been expecting it for some time, but that doesn't make it any less alarming in the moment.

Sherlock is carrying a thick reference book in from his bedroom, but suddenly drops it with a resounding _thump_ onto the floor. John looks up in time to see him list to one side and grab the back of a chair for support. "Sherlock!"

The detective's voice is faint and he's frowning. "John…" His knees buckle and the hand that was holding him up goes slack.

John leaps to his feet and crosses the room in two strides, but Sherlock is on the floor before he can get there. The sound of his limp body hitting the hardwood makes John's stomach churn uncomfortably, and he cringes as he drops to his knees beside the detective. Sherlock is lying on his back in a heap, his face partially obscured by a shock of dark curls. John's fingers immediately dig for a pulse in his throat, though he knows full well that Sherlock is fine; but the strong, steady beat beneath his fingertips calms him. He pushes his flatmate onto his side, flicks open the top two buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and yanks his own jumper off over his head, folding it under Sherlock's head. By the time he does this, Sherlock's eyes have opened, grey-green scanning John from folded knees up until they find his face.

"Sherlock?" John says softly, mindful of any headache that may be developing, from the crash to the floor or otherwise.

"John?"

"You're okay. Can you sit up?"

Sherlock doesn't speak, but appears to be considering this. After a few moments, he blinks fiercely and begins pushing himself upright. John helps him sit up with a hand at his back, watching for the colour to drain from his face and signal that he's going to pass out again. As expected, Sherlock does look a little white once he's straightened up, and he groans and presses a hand to the side of his head.

John immediately pushes Sherlock forward with a guiding hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to put his head between his knees. "You're alright," he repeats. "Breathe."

He does, slowly and deeply through parted lips, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Leaving him to it, John climbs to his feet and goes to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. Sherlock will probably balk, he knows, at being babied, but quite frankly, John has had more than enough of this. He'll have Lestrade dump him off the case if he has to. Steeling himself, John returns to where his flatmate is still sitting on the floor, cross-legged now with his back slightly bent as he stares at his ankles. John squats down beside him and holds out the water glass.

Something in Sherlock's throat thrums deeply - gratefully? - and he accepts the glass, sipping cautiously.

"How are you feeling?" John risks asking. He ducks his head a little to peer into his patient's eyes.

Sherlock draws back a little from the scrutiny, frowning openly back at John. At first he doesn't answer and drinks water instead, but after a moment he sets the glass down and scrubs a hand across his forehead. "I'm fine."

"Don't say that," John snaps. "You haven't slept in days. You barely eat enough to function. You haven't said two words that don't have to do with the case in I-don't-know-how-long. This has to stop."

"You _know_ I don't do those things when I'm working."

"And I know it's worse this time. What I don't know is why. But it doesn't matter. Sherlock, I draw the line when you knock yourself out on my living room floor."

Sherlock blinks owlishly back at him, possibly cowed by the reprimand and definitely surprised by it. He is usually the one giving orders around here.

John is acutely aware of the fact that he has never spoken to Sherlock in this tone of voice before, not like this. Perhaps he's shouted at him once or twice about minding his Ps and Qs around other people, but nothing like this. His tone during this conversation has been sharp and commanding - his 'Captain Watson voice' is what Lestrade has called it in the past. Usually reserved for criminals and uncooperative witnesses, and once for getting in and out of Baskerville. This is different. This is personal, intimate. His stony expression doesn't slip as he asks, "Can you stand?"

The detective finishes his water and doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet under his own power, only listing slightly when he's gotten himself to his full height. He shakes off the hand John extends and steadies himself instead on the chairback. "The longer we delay, the more of a threat this man poses to everyone around him."

"Scotland Yard is on the case. You need to _sleep_, Sherlock, the work can wait for eight hours while you do that. Hell, rest might even help you solve the case, you know. Sleep deprivation seriously inhibits brain function."

"Every minute counts, John," replies Sherlock, shaking his head, even though he is holding onto the chairback with two white-knuckled hands now. "At any moment - "

John cuts him off. "Since when do you care about human life?" he cries before he can stop himself. "As long as you solve the case, you win, you can't take a night off to - "

"Since Natalia Novak."

"What?"

"Natalia Novak," Sherlock says on a sigh. Defeated, he pulls the chair out and drops down into it. He sets the water glass down on the table and studies his reflection.

"Who's Natalia Novak?" John demands curtly.

"It was a long time ago. Before you. It was… I lost. Sort of." Sherlock's face contorts uncomfortably for half a second. "I solved the case, but not quickly enough. Adrian Miller killed an American tourist by the name of Emily Duncan, a year after I started consulting with the Yard. He was clever about it, though. He cleaned up after himself. There wasn't much DNA evidence at all, and what was there wasn't in the database because he didn't have a criminal record and had never been bonded or fingerprinted. He essentially disappeared after he killed her. Hence why Lestrade needed me on the case. I took too long tracking Miller down, and less than a day before I found him, he killed another tourist called Natalia Novak. If I had just gotten to him a few hours sooner, I could have prevented that."

Now it is John's turn to be cowed by his flatmate's words. He is ashamed of himself - ashamed that it took him so long to ask, and ashamed of the way in which he eventually did. He releases a breath he didn't realise he's been holding and sits down heavily in an adjacent chair. "Christ. How long between the killings?"

"Six weeks."

That answer isn't surprising. Sherlock has had his head in a case from five years ago all this time - as far as he was concerned, he had a six-week window at maximum to find a suspect. No wonder his condition has spiralled out of control as time went by, especially in the last few days. It's been almost five weeks now; the timer is running out of sand. "I'm sorry," John manages.

Sherlock shrugs.

They sit in silence for a few moments, John watching Sherlock and Sherlock watching his water glass. Finally, John scrapes together his resolve and clears his throat. "Still - you need rest, and food, and water, for God's sake. I know you don't do those things while you're working," John says quickly before Sherlock can interrupt, "but when a case drags on this long, you have to."

For a long time, Sherlock doesn't answer. He's scowling at his water glass now, no doubt irritated with his transport for having needs that interfere with his all-important work. But finally he says, in a small voice, "It would seem so."

John thinks that this is agreeable enough. Then something else occurs to him. "Listen, um… you know it wasn't your fault, right?"

"What?"

"Natalia Novak."

Sherlock's face goes through several changes very quickly. John thinks one of them is surprise, another relief, but the rest are unreadable. He settles, in the end, on feigned indignance. "Don't be an idiot, John."

_Okay_, John thinks to himself, but he decides not to say anything. He watches Sherlock stand up, the chair scraping back as he does. He tenses. "Where are you going?"

"Bed," the detective replies.

John is surprised - pleasantly so - but he doesn't push his luck by questioning it. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."


	2. Physician, Heal Thyself

**Characters: **Sherlock & John

**POV: **Alternating

**Prompt: ****Do doctors really make the worst patients? Sherlock tries to take care of John when he's suddenly taken ill from caring for a sick child.**

**Submitted by: **Arowen 13

* * *

John wakes at six o'clock on the dot and feels much too tired for someone who just got a full night's rest. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and thinks that on the other hand, maybe he feels just the appropriate amount of tired for someone who hasn't had a day off in eight bloody months. Between Sherlock and his real job, there's never a dull moment.

His joints pop as he stretches, reminding him that he's not twenty anymore, not even thirty anymore. He shrugs his dressing gown on over his pyjamas and pads downstairs.

Their flat is bathed in warm morning light. It pours in through the tall windows facing the street and illuminates the spread of experiments covering the breakfast table, refracted in a tall Erlenmeyer flask filled with some sort of blue-green liquid. It's all too bright and sparkly and it gives John a headache. He walks over and draws the drapes.

Sherlock isn't up yet - won't be for another hour at least, as they're in between cases - and John more or less has the flat to himself. He basks in the silence and moves quietly to the kitchen to put on coffee and butter some toast. Once that's all arranged, he goes to the sofa and settles himself with his mug and his breakfast and the newspaper that is waiting for him on the coffee table.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom. Shockingly, he's dressed already - Dolce & Gabbana small-collar button up, tailored slacks, obviously going somewhere. John notes that he has a suit jacket hanging over his arm and deduces that where he's going is work. Private client, surely, as he'd never get up this early for Lestrade, unless it was urgent, and there hasn't been anything in the paper. John is proud of himself for putting all this together. He asks anyway, "Where are you going?"

Sherlock answers predictably, "Client." Then he adds, unpredictably, "Agoraphobe," as he slips his phone into his pocket and puts on his jacket and coat.

Quickly, John folds the newspaper and gets to his feet. "Let me just get dressed."

"No." Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. "You're not coming."

"What? Why?"

"You're ill."

"I'm - what? No, I'm not. Just hang on a tick, I'll come with you." John makes to round the coffee table and dash upstairs, but Sherlock places himself in front of him.

"You're flushed and sweating and there are dark circles around your eyes, even though you got approximately seven-point-six hours of sleep last night. You haven't dressed or showered yet, not because you just felt like being lazy, but because you didn't have the energy. You thought the coffee might help, but it didn't, so you've just been sitting here quietly reading the paper instead of taking your usual shower at eight-fifteen. And the headache is fairly obvious, considering the darkness of the flat. You're coming down with a virus, John, and I won't have you contaminating my clients or evidence." Sherlock knots his scarf around his throat with an air of finality and steps toward the door. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Wait - Sherlock - dammit!" John stands in the doorway and watches helplessly as his flatmate hurries down the stairs and out into the street. "I'm not sick!" he calls as the door slams.

* * *

Sometime around noon, Sherlock is in a cab on his way home, staring at the unanswered text he sent to John over an hour ago. Well, texts, to be precise. The first one said, _What colour is the beaver liver in the refrigerator?_ and that one went out at ten AM. The second one said, _Headed home_ and was sent at eleven. John hasn't answered either of them, which is strange, because John always answers, even when it has to do with beaver livers.

Sherlock arrives at 221, pays the driver, and climbs the seventeen stairs to his flat. He is mildly curious as to what ailment has incapacitated John past the point of answering texts, and just slightly hopeful that he will be able to conduct an experiment on him before his condition becomes emergent. Needless to say, he's surprised when he steps through the threshold and sees John, fully dressed, standing in the middle of the living room talking on the phone.

"Yeah, okay," John says into the phone as Sherlock hangs up his coat and scarf. "Got it. Brilliant. Yes, thank you. Thank you. Right, bye then."

"Cancelling all your appointments for tomorrow," Sherlock observes as he kicks the door shut and unbuttons his suit jacket.

John blinks. "How…?"

"Two thank you's," says the detective, by way of explanation. He can tell that it's lost on John, and he doesn't try to help him catch up. He angles an elegant dark brow upward and glides past his flatmate toward the table, simultaneously producing a thick file from inside his jacket. "How are you feeling, then?" he asks with limited interest. He already has a pretty good idea.

"Fine," John insists. "I don't know why you're so convinced I'm coming down with something."

God, John can be so slow sometimes. It's so very tedious. "I already told you how I _know_," he states. "Now you've confirmed my suspicions by calling out of work tomorrow."

"Does it occur to you that perhaps I just wanted a bloody day off? I've been working seven days a week for months, between you and the surgery - I need a break!"

"I imagine you'll get one, of a sort."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock decides that now is a good time to start ignoring John.

* * *

John feels like death warmed over. An unpleasant and telling ache has settled into his back, he spent some time vomiting while Sherlock was gone, and he feels hot and cold by turns. But he sure as hell isn't going to let on that he's ill. He's going to quietly ride this out, because Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't get to be right every single time. So he's going to put on a stoic face, he's going to let Sherlock exclude him from this newest case, and he's going to get through this without so much as a whimper. And when it's over, he'll gloat about how Sherlock was wrong and he was never ill, and he won't feel bad for lying because he'll have earned it.

Luckily, his flatmate isn't making it difficult. Sherlock is now absorbed in whatever he's got in glass slides under the microscope and pretending John doesn't exist, so that makes it easy for John to walk away and go pretend to read a book.

John carries on pretending to read his book for a few hours, then when he realises that the words are swimming before his eyes, he turns on the telly and stretches out on the sofa, casual as you like. But even that he's not really seeing, because his body is screaming for rest, and the unpleasant coil of nausea is curling around his belly again. He looks at the clock. It's only four in the afternoon. He has to make it to ten, at least, to be convincing. Steeling himself for a difficult six hours, he takes the TV remote in hand and tells himself that this will all be worth it in the end.

* * *

Sherlock is surprised that John has held out for this long. He is more stubborn than Sherlock gave him credit for. The detective makes a note of this.

It's about six in the evening. Mrs. Hudson brought up a baked hen a little while ago to share with the boys, but John only nibbled at his portion. He's pretending to watch television, but Sherlock knows he's not really paying attention. He keeps squirming, which speaks to his physical discomfort - body aches, probably, to go along with the nausea. His eyes are unfocussed and once or twice he's nodded off a little. Sherlock feels quite proud of himself. He's never been adept at deducing medical facts - that's John's area. But it seems all his time spent observing John has paid off.

Still, despite all this, John is doing a bang-up job of hiding his condition. Sherlock has the sense that the soldier in him hasn't forgotten his military bearing, and that he's actually even worse off than he seems. But why hide it? On this point, Sherlock doesn't know. What he does know is that two can play this game.

He waits until seven, and then stands up abruptly, pocketing his phone and scooping his suit jacket up off a nearby chair. "Come on, John," he says crisply. "We need to track down a Turkish carpenter."

John scowls at him from the sofa. The light of the telly plays over his face in harsh angles. "I thought I wasn't allowed," he grates.

"That was when I thought you were ill," the detective points out as he slips into his coat. "But you clearly aren't, after all. You haven't been vomiting, and you've been eating and drinking normally… and watching your rubbish television programmes. By all counts, you're perfectly healthy, and I need a second set of eyes on this case."

"Are you admitting you were wrong?"

Sherlock tosses John his coat. "I'm _admitting_ that I need your help, or someone might die." That isn't precisely true. The case is that of a missing person that the police have taken less than seriously up to this point, but Sherlock is reasonably certain that the girl is with her Internet boyfriend in Aberdeen. He is also reasonably certain that John will think up some excuse not to come unless he thinks that his being there will save a life, so Sherlock stretches the truth. Though, technically, anyone might die at any time, so he isn't _really_ lying.

And true to form, John sighs heavily and puts on his coat.

* * *

John knows that he is flagging. He can sense his own pyrexia mounting. The nausea is pretty insistent, too, and he's not sure that chicken was such a good idea. To make it all worse, his head started pounding some time ago and hasn't stopped.

And now they're on their way to… to do something, John isn't even sure what anymore. Something to do with a Turkish carpenter and a missing teenager and… that's all he can remember.

They get out of the cab on the other side of Hyde Park, and John pulls his coat more tightly around himself. "The Turkish carpenter lives in Kensington?"

"No, his sister-in-law does. Weren't you paying attention when I explained all this in the taxi?" Sherlock's tone is impatient.

John makes a valiant attempt at listening as Sherlock launches into another long-winded explanation about trace evidence and the honesty of the Turkish people as a whole, but the sheer effort causes him to break out in a cold sweat from head to toe, so he abandons it and instead settles for interjecting neutral listening noises whenever the detective pauses for breath. Which, as it turns out, doesn't happen very often, and that suits John just fine.

All the while, they continue walking. And walking, and walking. Past shops and tourists and nannies pushing prams and families all bundled up against the evening chill. After some time, Sherlock leads John left into a quieter residential street, and John is completely disoriented by this point.

Without warning, Sherlock is pushing John back against a brick wall, and ducking his head to peer into his eyes, and pressing an insistent hand into his good shoulder. "Are you alright?" the detective is demanding, and the tone of his voice implies that he's asked it once or twice already with no answer.

John realises that his breaths are ragged and wheezy and he's exhausted, so bloody exhausted that he can hardly see straight, and that headache has become an EF-5 tornado ripping his brain to shreds and splattering it across the insides of his skull. Suddenly, this whole pretending not to be sick thing feels very stupid. "No," he rasps, giving in at last. "No, Sherlock, I'm not bloody alright, I'm not and you know damn well… get off me." He shakes him off and claws his coat open, suddenly hot. Then his knees are giving and he's sliding down the wall to sit on the pavement. He can feel the cold of the concrete through his trousers.

"I tried to tell you," Sherlock says, kneeling in front of him.

"Get a cab," John growls irritably.

* * *

Sherlock is unprepared for how much walking is necessary to wear John out. He holds up surprisingly well until they turn down Montpelier Street, and then his body seems to give up all at once. His breathing becomes labored and he starts listing to the side, and Sherlock grabs him by the arm and asks if he's okay, but John doesn't seem to hear. That's when he stops him, pushes him against the wall of a nearby flat, and demands an answer. Finally, finally, John admits defeat.

Sherlock is also unprepared for how sick John really is. In the cab, he shivers incessantly and makes small, half-stifled sounds of discomfort every time the car lurches over a bump in the road. Even in the fading evening light, his pallor is unmistakable. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt and thinks he should have just let John have his way instead of dragging him out into the cold. But he had to prove a point, and now that John had admitted that he was unwell, he could concentrate on getting better, and Sherlock could help.

Wait, could he? What was involved in such a task? Sherlock frowns into the middle distance and wracks his brain. John has been sick before, of course… hasn't he? Well… maybe? He can't remember now. If he knew about a time that John was ill, he's deleted it. But he wouldn't delete something so interesting and relevant, so maybe John really hasn't ever been ill in all the time Sherlock has known him. This makes a certain amount of sense, Sherlock realises. Having been exposed to probably every common illness under the sun, John has undoubtedly built up an immune resistance to most everyday diseases. Does that mean this isn't an everyday disease?

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asks as the cab pulls up to their flat. He pays the driver out of John's wallet and meets his flatmate round the other side of the car.

John looks less than pleased by Sherlock's scrutiny. "What?"

"What's wrong with you?" he asks again. He leaves out the impatience this time.

"Sherlock!" John shakes his head and pushes past the detective.

Sherlock follows him up the stairs and unlocks the door, since John's hands are shaking so badly. "No, really - you're a doctor. Make a diagnosis."

"Why? So you can run an experiment?"

As tempting as that was… "No. So I can help."

John barks hoarsely. "Ha. Right." He stumbles inside and goes straight to the sofa and collapses, coat and shoes and all.

Sherlock has never taken much time to study medicine lately. He has John for that, most of the time. "Could it be flu?"

The doctor groans and covers his eyes with his arm. "It's a stomach bug, Sherlock, probably norovirus. There were two cases in the surgery this week."

"What do you need?"

"I need you to shut up."

Sherlock hangs up his coat and scarf and toes off his shoes. He waits.

John must eventually sense that he's still standing there, because after a time he peeks out from under his arm and says, "_What_, Sherlock?"

"What do you need?" Sherlock says again.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock doesn't bother replying.

Laboriously, John sighs. "Fluids. Warmth. Rest. For you not to be crowing about how you were right."

Swiftly, Sherlock strides to the kitchen, fills a glass with water, and returns to the sitting room, where he pushes the glass into John's limp hand. John accepts it with some amount of surprise and sits up to sip.

"And you need to be washing your hands a lot," John adds. "Norovirus is extremely contagious. Actually, you'll be very lucky if you don't have it already."

Clearly, John hasn't heard that Sherlock never gets sick. "What else?" he asks.

"Nothing," John replies. But then he amends, "Sick bucket." He sets the water glass down, kicks off his shoes, and hunkers down into the sofa cushions. His eyes are closed. His breathing slows, and after just a few minutes he starts to snore.

Being right hasn't been nearly as fun as it should have been, Sherlock reflects. It's usually a lot more satisfying than this. Now John's just sleeping and that's boring. The detective looks around for John's kit. He knows his flatmate keeps a nice big bag of doctorly equipment in the flat, and he wonders if there is something in it that might help John get better so that they can get on with things.

* * *

John drifts in and out of sleep for the best part of the night. He dreams that Sherlock's there the whole time. He dreams that he fetches water and blankets and cool cloths, but he has to be told to do these things because he hasn't got a damn clue how to take care of anyone. John realises at some point that that's not a dream. Sherlock's really there, and he really does need to be told how to handle a sick person. John tries to remember to tell him to wash his hands.

Sometime around four AM, John falls into a more sound sleep. He can hear the violin being played from somewhere distantly.

Around nine, he can sense rather than see the sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. It's quiet in the flat, and John notes with some relief that his headache is a lot better and the nausea not quite so bad. But his chest feels strange. Cold and heavy. He blinks his eyes open.

Sherlock is kneeling next to the sofa, studying him intently, with the plugs of John's stethoscope fitted into his ears. The cold heaviness on John's chest is the bell of the instrument, which Sherlock is pressing lightly against his chest.

"What are you doing?" asks John.

"Ah!" Sherlock jumps, startled by the sound of John's voice as it resonated through his chest and into the bell of the stethoscope. He drags out the plugs and paws at one of his ears.

Cautiously, John pushes himself upright. He expects the nausea to surge violently, but it doesn't. His stomach rolls uncomfortably, but that's about it. He's relieved. That's about all he can deal with right now, he thinks. He rubs the back of his neck and then pushes the blankets away. For the first time, he notices that he's been relieved of his coat and his jumper, and is down to his trousers and shirt. Parts of him are clammy with sweat. "Ugh."

"Your fever's down," Sherlock reports. He is consulting his phone. "It's been falling steadily since four-thirty-four. You were at 37.5 an hour ago. And you haven't vomited in several hours."

John isn't nearly as pleased as Sherlock to hear about his vomit. Or lack thereof. "What?" he questions dumbly.

"Hm, but you're obviously still disoriented." The detective looks down at John over the top of his phone. "Any pain?"

"Um… no?"

"No? Was that a question?"

"No?" John blinks. "Sorry, Sherlock, but - what are you doing?"

"I'm taking care of you. This is what you do, isn't it? Keep a log of signs and symptoms, and monitor your patients' progress while you provide treatment."

John's heart sinks a little. "What sort of treatment have you been providing?"

Sherlock consults his phone again. "Paracetamol, fluids, and bed-rest."

"Oh." That's not so bad. Actually, that's exactly what he needed. And, according to his 'chart,' he's on the mend, so apparently Sherlock even has this doctor thing down pat. John picks up his water glass from the coffee table and sips tentatively. "Thank you," he says afterward. He exhales audibly. "Though, y'know, most of it wasn't necessary. It's just a stomach bug. All I needed was rest, you didn't have to… chart me. Have you been washing your hands?"

Sherlock nods toward a bottle of hand gel sitting on the side table.

"Could I trouble you for tea?" asks John, after a moment.

Without a word, Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and returns quickly with a steaming mug. "I calculated what time you'd wake based on the trajectory of your illness and what time you finally settled down," he explains. "I started steeping your tea four minutes ago."

Sometimes, that great brain of his could be downright scary. "Uh… thanks, Sherlock. That was, um… kind, I think?"

Nodding, Sherlock sits at the other end of the sofa and picks up his own teacup from the coffee table.

For a few minutes, the two of them sip their tea in companionable silence. John is relieved to be feeling better. He's also relieved that Sherlock's idea of treatment hasn't maimed or killed him. Actually, truth be told, the detective did a fine job. He looks over at his flatmate, studying his profile, and wonders if he ought to compliment his passable work or if Sherlock would just be weird about it. Then he notices the odd ashen quality to his flatmate's features, and the thin film of perspiration that has begun to coat his brow.

"Sherlock," John says slowly. "Look at me."

Sherlock looks.

John frowns. "I think you're sick."

"No, I'm not!"


	3. Trapped

**Characters: **Moriarty & Sherlock

**POV:** Sherlock

**Prompt: ****Sherlock is in Moriarty's clutches. **

**Submitted by:** jink

**Note: **Takes place sometime during Series 2. The exact timing isn't important, just know that this is not a Series 4 prediction by any stretch of the imagination. Also, if the demand is there, I may do this prompt again sometime with sick!Sherlock or high!Sherlock - thoughts?

* * *

Sherlock doesn't remember what happened. But then, memory is a funny thing. At any given time, a person's memory centres are only functioning at about 60% accuracy. The human brain can edit, delete, or fabricate memories subconsciously - meaning that the person doesn't even know it's happening. Sometimes even the most vivid memories are fake; and sometimes even the most traumatic events are deleted. Not even Sherlock Holmes can completely overcome that kind of primal brain function. It is, unfortunately, just a fact of life.

_Think_, Sherlock tells himself. _Assess the situation_. He finds his brain is sluggish to comply, like a computer in the process of booting up. Sending and resending commands repeatedly will only slow it down, so the best course of action is to sit back and wait for it to awaken itself.

The first thing he becomes aware of is that he is somewhere in between conscious and unconscious. He knows he ought to be able to make a deduction based on that fact, but his mind draws a blank. That's not a good sign. A long string of possibilities as to why that is begins to flood his mind: _brain injury, drugs, sick, drunk - _

_Stop_.

Pain is the next thing that registers. Most people describe pain in terms of heat: _searing, white-hot, red, burning. _But Sherlock's pain is cold. It's cold and it's inescapable, like someone is filling his insides with ice. On the outside edges of his awareness, he can feel his body reacting, clutching reflexively at his core, guarding the wound - wound? His voice falls through the rough notes of a low-pitched groan, but it sounds faraway, as if it is someone else's.

He notices he is moving. No, not moving - _being_ moved. Dragged backward. Then dropped, repositioned. Pain again.

"Sheeeeeeerrrlooooooooock."

Rhotic accent. Not English. Irish. Dublin. His brain is warming up, finally.

"This is no fun, Sherlock. Wake up!"

Moriarty.

Sherlock's eyes snap open. His vision is blurred and jumpy, but he gathers that he's looking at a ceiling. The pain intensifies as his senses sharpen - a nasty side effect of his brain coming around to full functionality.

"I called your bluff," Moriarty's voice floats over him, shrill and lyrical. "Only you didn't move quick enough."

There are hands on him. His hands. Moriarty's. Pulling and prodding and - _oh_, that hurts. Sherlock coughs dust out of his throat and lifts one of his hands into his field of vision. It's red and shining with his blood.

James Moriarty's face appears directly above him. His eyes are wide, manic. There is a cut slicing through one eyebrow. It bleeds into the inner corner of his eye, flooding it and making him look as though he is crying tears of blood. Every blink disperses blood across his cornea. His eyes are watering from the salt.

Sherlock tries to talk, but he hasn't the strength. He can feel himself beginning to shake, a slight tremor that sets into his hands and feet first. Some part of him knows that this, along with the strange perception of cold, is a sign of catastrophic blood loss.

"Shh," Jim soothes, petting his face with a dusty hand. He's smiling. He bends over Sherlock's body and starts picking debris out of his clothes. "Jim and Sherly went down to Burley to fetch a pail of water," he sings. "Sherly got mad, and Jim was sad, and then the building collapsed!"

_And then the building collapsed_. Now he remembers. Moriarty blew up a building. To prove a point. Stupid. They both might have been killed - what then?

"Oh, hell!"

A sudden pressure in his abdomen makes Sherlock suck in a strangled breath. His vision darkens at the edges.

"No, no," Moriarty is saying now, his voice barely audible above the rushing in Sherlock's ears. He taps Sherlock's face with a bloody hand.

More pressure. Sherlock blinks his vision clear and makes himself look down. Moriarty is tearing bits from Sherlock's clothes and using them to pack a deep wound in his abdomen. All he can see is red. His shirt, his jacket, Moriarty's hands and arms up to the elbows… red. He lets his head fall back again. "Why...?"

Jim presses a few more strips of fabric into the wound and leans close to Sherlock's face, his breath ghosting over the detective's skin in short, hot bursts. "Because you're not allowed to die. Not til I say go. Oh, eventually, maybe, but not now. C'mere." Dust and debris crunch under his feet as he moves toward Sherlock's head. He sticks his hands under the detective's arms and drags him backward toward the other side of the room.

An involuntary cry rips from Sherlock's throat at the sudden movement. He can feel himself breaking out in a sweat, but all he feels is cold.

"The cavalry'll be on their way," Moriarty is saying now, as he props Sherlock up against the wall. "Not long, now. What d'you think John would pay for you, mm?" He grins an animal grin and pushes Sherlock's legs apart so that he can sit cross-legged in the space between them. The cut on his face is bleeding freely, and he seems to be favouring his left side, but it's as if he hardly notices. "Would John lay down his _life_ for you, Sherlock?"

_John_. His heart speeds up at the mention of his flatmate, panic exploding across his chest like lightning, and he tries to move but finds he can't. He thinks of John sitting in his chair reading a book, which is where he left him this morning. He wonders if he's still there, or if some military sixth sense of _danger_ has awakened in his brain. Probably not. John is terribly slow.

"So, is that a yes?"

"What… do you… want?" Sherlock pants. The icy pain in his abdomen seems to be radiating outward - down into his legs, up into his lungs. Breathing requires concentration.

"You," that lilting voice replies. He places the index finger of his right hand beside the outer corner of Sherlock's eye and drags gently downward, tracing the shape of his face. "All of you. Every last inch." That touch, too hot, slides over Sherlock's throat now, over his collarbone, down the front of his tattered shirt. "Even the bits that John Watson claimed for himself. You're mine, Sherlock, you just don't know it yet. I own you." Moriarty's hand stops at the wound, dances around the edge of it for a moment. He presses his finger into the makeshift bandage, making Sherlock squirm in discomfort. "You can't stop it. I collapsed a building on you to make sure you wouldn't get away," he points out.

"Collapsed a building - on both of us," Sherlock corrects, his voice made ragged and sharp by agony. He closes his hand around Jim's wrist and pries him away from the wound. "I-Ineffective as it was. You have at least… two fractured ribs. Could have been killed… by that support beam."

Jim glances down at himself. "Fared better than you." He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

Darkness edges into Sherlock's vision again. He is light-headed and tired, so tired. He can hear his respiration speeding up, his body desperately trying to reroute oxygen to his brain, but the problem is his blood, not his breathing. His eyes slide shut, and Moriarty's voice fades to a low murmur beneath the sound of running water.

Blackness.

Then, exactly fifty-seven seconds later, he wakes with a start and finds himself lying on the crumbling floor again, with Jim hovering over top of him, his hands poised on Sherlock's chest. Those dark eyes stare fiercely down at him, angry and insulted that he would have the audacity to try and die before he was given permission.

"I said no, Sherlock," Jim reminds him. He's winded from the set of compressions he's just delivered with two broken ribs protesting. "I said not yet." He moves one hand and puts pressure on the bleeding in the detective's abdomen.

Sherlock arches his back against this new wave of pain, strangling the sound his body tries to make. He tosses his head in protest, notices his phone lying on the ground to his right. Call connected: 999. "How kind of you," he hisses.

"Shush."

It's ridiculous, Sherlock has the presence of mind to realise. The Napoleon of crime, he calls himself, and he's sitting on his knees giving his nemesis CPR. Sherlock swallows painfully and tries to roll his eyes, but the lids just flutter shut. For the best, probably. If he has to look at Moriarty's annoying face for another instant, he might just spit. Normally, he could appreciate a good paradox, but right now he's consumed by pain.

Moriarty hums to himself. "Lot of blood."

"Astute observation."

All of a sudden, his voice is much to close to Sherlock's ear. "Lighten up, Sure-Luck. I didn't kill you, did I? Listen, I - oh." He stops short, possibly cut off by the sirens that are approaching. His eyes go wide and his eyebrows lift comically as he nods his approval. "Very nice, very prompt. That's my cue, Sherlock. Hey." He taps the detective's face.

With a great amount of effort, Sherlock pries his eyes open. Moriarty is grasping one of his hands, pressing it into the wound.

"Do tell that nice policeman not to bother, eh? He won't find anything here, 'cept the expired charges. And a whole lotta your blood, o' course. And listen, try not to die, okay?"

"Do my best," Sherlock says, his voice dripping with evident sarcasm. "For you."

Moriarty laughs heartily, though it's cut off abruptly as his injuries protest. "Be seeing you," he promises, patting Sherlock's cheek. He stands and walks away, straightening his ruined suit as he disappears behind a fallen pillar.

Distantly, Sherlock can hear the crunch of tyres as a rescue team pulls up outside.

_Catch you later_.


	4. Adrenaline and Too Much Sugar

**Characters:** Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson

**POV:** Lestrade

**Prompt: ****Lestrade is injured on a case. Anderson, Donovan, John and Sherlock all offer their opinions and comfort, in their own particular styles.**

**Submitted by: **ButterscotchCandybatch

* * *

**Monday**

London is freezing and covered in a blanket of fresh snow on the day that Greg breaks his ankle. It's a bad landing from a four-foot drop that does it, during an adrenaline-fueled chase of a robbery suspect who's eluded capture for nearly a month. He doesn't realise at first that he's hurt himself - adrenaline and all - so he carries on running on it, catches the bugger he's been chasing, books him in, and goes about securing the crime scene. Twenty minutes later, the adrenaline has worn off and he starts limping. Sally asks him what's wrong and he says he thinks he's rolled it. Ten minutes pass and he's starting to find excuses to lean up against a patrol car to take the weight off it, and he starts to wonder if he's sprained it. After fifteen minutes, the pain is bad enough that it stops his breath whenever he accidentally stands on that foot, but he's Greg and so he doesn't say anything. It's not until a few minutes later that John and Sherlock catch up with him and John notices his greenish pallor and tells him to sit down before he falls down.

"What is it?" John asks, kneeling in front of the inspector.

Greg is sitting on the kerb, and he tries to wave John away. "Ah, it's fine, it's just a sprained ankle. Could use a couple paracetamol, though."

"This one?" John gingerly rolls up Lestrade's left trouser leg and peeks under his sock. The bruising is already a deep purple and spreading up his leg. The doctor hums thoughtfully and eases Greg out of his shoe and sock to get a better look. He sighs when he sees the full scope of the injury. The swelling is already noticeable, the bruising evident from the middle of his foot to part of his calf. He palpates the joint gently.

Lestrade barely contains a hiss of pain.

"Yeah, that's not a sprain, that's a break. And how long have you been walking around on a broken ankle?"

"Better part of an hour?" Greg guesses.

John sighs. "Go to the hospital."

Greg thinks that is sound advice. "Okay, I just need to - "

"Go _now_."

* * *

**Tuesday**

"Bollocks." Lestrade feels spectacularly stupid. He's standing in his division's kitchenette at the Yard, staring down at a cup of coffee overflowing with the entire contents of the sugar bowl. His dominant hand is occupied with his crutches, and he had thought that stirring sugar into his coffee would be easy enough to do with his left. Putting the crutches down might have been an option, except that he's in too much pain to try to stand without them. And, well, balancing on one foot for more than a few seconds is and always has been out of the question.

"Alright, Boss?"

Greg glances over his shoulder, sees a mop of curly hair, and turns back to his embarrassment of a coffee cup. "Fine," he says, trying to get rid of Sgt Donovan before she sees what he's done.

But it's too late. Sally chuckles good-naturedly and stands beside him. "Bit of a mess, that."

"Yeah."

"Sit." Donovan pulls a chair from the nearby folding table with her foot and steers Greg into it. "I'll do this."

"It's fine, I can manage," Lestrade stutters, thoroughly humiliated by his inability to pour coffee.

"I can see that!" the sergeant responds. She dumps his entire cup in the trash and starts over. "Y'know, I think there's a reason they give you some paid time off after you've broken your leg. If you can't stand here for two minutes to make a cuppa, you probably ought to be at home with the good drugs."

"Eh." Greg fidgets. "Didn't want to put you all out. We've been swamped lately…"

"Oh, right." Sally stirs a much more reasonable amount of sugar into the new cup of steaming black liquid. "It has nothing to do with the fact you'd miss it sitting at home."

Lestrade grins sheepishly. Guilty as charged.

Donovan puts a fresh cup of coffee in front of him with a knowing smile.

* * *

**Wednesday**

Greg is in a good mood when he arrives at a homicide scene early in the morning. He took his good drugs last night and finally got a full night's rest. He even managed to go about his morning routine without falling over, knocking anything down with his crutches, or banging into any doors. So far, it's a good day.

"What have we got?" he asks as he arrives on scene.

Anderson meets him at the doorway of the house in question. "Female, mid-thirties, multiple stab wounds. Looks like a crime of passion. Neighbours say she's been suspiciously attached to the pool-boy. Seems pretty straightforward."

"Yeah, good. What about the…?" Lestrade makes a slicing gesture across his throat.

"You'll want to have a look at that," the forensic analyst assures him. "This way."

Greg follows Phillip inside the house, down a hall, and through a sparsely decorated sitting room. At the stairway, Anderson starts to go up, but turns when he realises that the DI isn't following. He glances at the boot on Greg's ankle, at the crutches, then makes eye contact. "Oh…"

Lestrade looks at the staircase. From here, it looks like an awfully long set of steps. Steep, too. "Bugger…"

Anderson grimaces at first, but then his eyes widen and he thrusts a finger in the air. "Hang on!" he says, and turns and rushes up the stairs, leaving Greg to wait at the bottom. He's gone just a couple of minutes, and when he runs back down the steps, he has his phone in his hand. "Here, have a look," he says, stepping down to stand beside the DI so that they can both see the smartphone's screen. He cycles through a few photos of the scene, and the ligature marks on the woman's throat.

"Yeah, you're right, that is strange. Why strangle her if he'd already stabbed her? Doesn't make sense."

"Could be a sex thing," Phillip offers. He frowns at the grimace Lestrade makes. "Alright there?"

"Fine," the DI replies immediately. He shifts his booted foot painfully. "Damn thing."

Anderson nods, then flicks through a couple more of the macabre photographs. "Well. At least you're not her."

Lestrade must admit that this is a good point.

* * *

**Thursday**

"Yes, but why in _my_ bedroom?" Sherlock demands, carefully setting a stack of Burberry suits down on John's armchair.

John's voice is thin with impatience. "Because mine's upstairs, and that's the whole point - he can't be going up and down the stairs half a dozen times a day. And put your clothes somewhere else."

"There are seventeen stairs leading up to our flat," the detective points out.

"Yes, but he won't be going up and down those either," John fires back with a pointed look at Greg.

Lestrade is seated on the sofa, having been forcibly removed from his flat after John found out that he was not only back at work, but that his bathroom and his bedroom are on the small rental home's second floor.

"He's taking the next two weeks off - perhaps more, if he keeps insisting on impeding progress by walking around all the time - and he's not going anywhere that isn't the bathroom, the kitchen, or the surgery." John rounds on Greg. "Right?"

"Whatever you say, mate," Lestrade concedes, having already been subjected to one of John's lectures. They've come to an agreement that he can have Sally round once a day to update him on their ongoing cases, but he's not to do any legwork whatsoever.

John flashes a satisfied smile. "You're an easier patient than this one," he observes, jerking a thumb toward Sherlock.

* * *

**Friday**

Sherlock's bedroom is a thing of wonder. Until now, Lestrade has never seen it - not in this flat or any of the other ones he's occupied in the last seven or so years. The bookshelves are stuffed with everything from Shakespeare to Poe to Mendeleev, and a good two dozen other great minds Greg has never heard of. The subjects range from fiction to the sciences to crime scene analysis. Above his bed hangs a Judo certificate. There are old photographs of famous people on the walls, and Lestrade suspects that one or two of them are originals, worth a lot of money. Boxes upon boxes of closed case files are stacked in the closet behind the designer suits. But, most surprisingly, everything is neat and tidy. Unlike the rest of the flat, everything has a place here. Actually, the room looks hardly lived-in, and Lestrade realises that that's just the thing - Sherlock never spends any time in here.

Greg finishes his inspection of the room and, winded, sits down on the bed, the barely-used mattress sinking deliciously beneath him. There is sweat beaded on his brow. The oxycodone is barely taking the edge off tonight - John was right. He should have been taking it easy. He glances at the clock and notices with some dismay that it is 3AM. He's been fighting sleep for the better part of three hours.

He barely notices the footsteps at the door until he hears the near-whispered, "Oh," and looks up to see Sherlock standing in the threshold, looking uncomfortable.

"Apologies," the detective says softly. "I didn't think…"

"S'alright," Greg replies with an easy smile. "It's your room."

"I was just…" Sherlock peers toward the chest of drawers.

Lestrade follows his gaze and notices the Stradivarius, in all its flamed maple glory, perched upon the bureau. "Oh, of course," he says, making to stand.

Sherlock waves him back down and crosses the room in three strides. He picks up the instrument by the neck and fishes the bow out from between the chest and the wall. He pauses on his way out of the room, his expression unreadable as he looks down at Lestrade. "Are you… alright?"

"Mm? Ah, yeah. Fine. Just… blasted ankle. Seems I should have taken that injury leave after all."

The detective tilts his head ever so slightly. "John could - "

"No," Greg cuts him off quickly. "No, it's not that bad. 'M just gonna try and sleep it off."

Sherlock nods, lifts the violin in a silent salute, and glides away.

Greg lowers himself back down into bed and stares at the ceiling. Something upstairs creaks; John's awake, too, it would seem. Nobody in 221B is sleeping tonight, apparently.

The first soft strains of a Mozart concerto float through the flat, and Greg feels himself enveloped in old memories. His body relaxes back into the mattress, the tension slowly easing its way out of his shoulders and middle back. He closes his eyes and listens.

* * *

**Two weeks later - Saturday**

"Well, it's looking a lot better," John says, examining Greg's ankle under the light of a lamp that's been relieved of its shade. He's sitting on the coffee table across from Lestrade to have a better look. "How does it feel?"

"Not too bad," Lestrade replies, though his entire body is tense and he is sweating. Mrs. Hudson is seated on the sofa beside him, patting his arm reassuringly.

"Good," John murmurs. He steals a glance at his patient's face. "Now how about the truth?"

Greg's stomach churns. "A little tender. Worse at night."

"Paracetamol cutting it or are you still on the oxy?"

"Oxy. But only at night."

John nods and says, "That's about what I expected. I think you could try taking the boot off once in a while and putting it up for a bit with some ice, see if that helps with the pain. And start using those crutches. They aren't for decoration, you know."

Greg grunts in pain as John's fingers explore the break some more.

Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue and rubs Greg's arm sweetly. "Oh, dear. But he's right, Inspector. I should know - I've got a hip."

Both men pause and turn to her.

"How did you hurt your hip, Mrs. H?" John asks curiously.

"Oh - I broke it. Long time ago. Nasty business, a lot of physical therapy and such."

John glances sidelong at Lestrade, who shrugs, and then returns his attention to his landlady. "Doing what?"

"I fell off my balcony in Florida," she says casually. "After a fight."

"A what?" John and Lestrade exclaim in unison.

The landlady blinks innocently back at the two men. "Some of my husband's former business partners needed… well, it doesn't matter, does it!" She shakes her head and busies herself with fixing her hair. "Anyway, they burst in like they owned the place, and I wasn't having any of it! Only I was just a little wisp of a thing back then, eight and a half stone, and when push came to shove… well, I took one of them down with me, at least."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaims, grinning. "You mean to tell me you fought members of a cartel to defend your husband's, er, product, and fell out of a balcony during the resulting, what - firefight?"

"Well, as I never got any shots off, it wasn't a proper firefight, was it?" Mrs. Hudson replies, all in a tizzy now. She stands suddenly and straightens her blouse, looking down at Lestrade with a mix of maternal concern and utter mortification. "I'll fix you that cuppa, dear. You just rest here." With that, she bustled away.

Lestrade, dazed, stares out at John in bewilderment. "And here I've only fallen off of a garden shed."


End file.
